


Peach, Plum, Pear

by thedastardly



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-11 19:29:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19933297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedastardly/pseuds/thedastardly
Summary: They spend the hour speaking in hushed tones, knowing that anyone could be eavesdropping just outside the wooden door of the captain’s quarters. James leans closer to Francis and feels his knuckles brush against Francis’s heavy cotton shirt.





	Peach, Plum, Pear

_ You were knocking me down, _

_ With the palm of your eye _

*

James is positively  _ lush _ . He’s been drinking some of the gin from his stores, in an attempt to warm the coldness that rests in the pit of his stomach. However, the weather remains unforgiving in the face of his attempts. He had cleaned dried blood out of his hairline this week, scrutinizing at himself in the mirror. A study in scarlet. He knows it will only become more frequent, a larger issue looming over him like a gun waiting to be fired.

And the character of the cold--it is not unlike jumping into an icy river with all one’s clothes on. James can feel the chill permeating the first layers of his coat and trousers, frost threatening to creep under his skin. The snow and ice crunch under his boots, and he can see the cloud of his breath before him like fog rolling over the Thames.

Every part of him feels frozen to the bone as he trudges through fresh power toward the Terror, the northern lights painting her in chiaroscuro on the horizon. When he turns back to examine the Erebus it looks much the same, dark in the distance as it waits. Never moving, stationary as the stars appear in the sky. It looks like a warning. 

James hopes they augur it that way when they find the ships:

_ Stop, don’t come here. Death waits. _

James thinks of Francis in his cabin, waiting patiently for a meeting that was arranged spur of the moment. A mate had come to his door and told him he was “from Terror, sir. Captain Crozier wants to see you if you’re available?”

James felt a chill run up his spine, but he smiled and told the lad to go ahead and tell Francis he would meet him soon. 

James had already been sipping on his gin, working away at the numbers and figures of the Erebus’s stores, but the prospect of going out into the night and of meeting with Francis drove him to imbibe a touch more than he may have planned. An attempt to calm his nerves, buzzing at the prospect of what may come.

Had it only been January when Francis had wiped his sooty face? When James had kissed his palms with all the reverence of a papist taking communion? Francis didn't pull his palms away, then.

Had it only been February when James had kissed Francis on the mouth, fingers smoothing over the lapel of his waistcoat as he bent his face to the older man’s? Then, again, in late February when Francis had touched his arm, and James had spun around to kiss him like his life depended on it?

Both times he had left in a hurry, face burning from shame and excitement. 

That seems ages ago, now.

James feels his neck warming as he walks up the icy ramp and onto Terror, feet following a well-worn path. 

In his cabin, Francis looks exhausted. He is seated at the table tied to the ceiling, a comical sight in the room. Everything else sits on the far side of the cabin, shifted by the ice pushing the ship over, over, over.

The lamp throws a weak light over his face, casting him in a golden aura, making his hair appear to be a deeper auburn than it is.

James shrugs out of his greatcoat and hangs it on a peg by the door, along with his hat, as he keeps his gaze on the other man. Francis’s shoulders are slumped slightly; he is clearly tired. James thinks about touching him there, the broad expanse of his back, but he refrains and smooths his hair down as he crosses the room instead.

Francis speaks first.

“James,” he says it quietly, not looking up from the maps and figures he is studying. 

James can not help himself. “ _ Francis _ ,” he says the other man’s name seriously, with a hint of a French accent. Poking fun. He smiles, almost sincerely, drawing his hand across the back of his own chair before he sits down next to Francis.

“You’ve been drinking?” Francis asks without looking at him, and James colors even without the probe of the man’s gaze.

“Gin does not warm your belly the way whiskey does. Well, at least not as quickly,” he says by way of explanation. Excuse-making. 

Francis hums in response, the corners of his mouth turned up just slightly. James relaxes at the sight, and then turns his attention to the maps and figures which have clearly been pored over by the captain for the last few days. James thinks that Francis must feel like Simon the Zealot, being pulled in two. Doing what is right and what is best.

They spend the hour speaking in hushed tones, knowing that anyone could be eavesdropping just outside the wooden door of the captain’s quarters. James leans closer to Francis and feels his knuckles brush against Francis’s heavy cotton shirt. Francis notices too, and his eyes meet James’s before he licks his lips, speech faltering. He rubs the bridge of his nose before he stands up from the table. “I think that’s enough work for tonight.” 

James watches the older man go to his stove and stoke the last of the embers to life. Silence, as the slight increase in warmth radiates outward from the flames.

“Shall I make my way back to the Erebus?” James asks, moving to stand. He shifts from foot to foot, anxiously studying Francis’s back again, admiring the way he carries himself. He feels some sensation in the pit of his stomach that he cannot describe.

“Stay,” Francis responds gently, and shoots James a glance over his shoulder. The look makes James feel as though Francis has pressed his hand directly over his heart.

James leans against the table, palms flat on the surface as watches Francis. He thinks of going to him and wrapping his arms around Francis’s shoulders, pressing his face into the space between his shoulder and neck. “What are you thinking about?” Francis murmurs, glancing over his shoulder again at James. 

James considers the question carefully before he finally speaks. “You.”

One side of Francis’s mouth pulls into a smirk and he quirks an eyebrow. “You’re too comfortable,” Francis replaces the fire iron in its cradle and takes a few steps toward James.

James plucks at one of the ropes that suspend the table, like a harp string.

“I’m emboldened by gin,” James adds. When he smiles, he tucks his chin into his chest and looks downward.

Francis takes the seat directly before him, hands resting on his thighs. “You know I hate gin,” Francis says--gently--and James laughs. “I had quite forgotten how much you loathe the stuff.” 

Francis reaches out, hesitating at first, before his fingers touch the dark navy wool of James’s waistcoat. “But you don’t loathe me, do you?” James says quietly as he watches Francis’s hands. 

“ _ Loathe _ is such a hateful word.” Francis looks up at James, his eyebrows knitted together in concern. “I could never loathe you, James.”

James nods and there is silence between them again as Francis fingers the gold buttons and then slowly pushes one through the buttonhole, watching the vest come apart at the spot. James feels his breath catch momentarily, his eyes closing as Francis moves to the next button.

Honestly, James was nervous it would be like pulling teeth to get this far with Francis.

Once Francis finishes with all his buttons James slips out of the waistcoat easily and Francis watches as he sheds his cravat and the heavy white jumper he wore under his waistcoat. James eagerly pulls his braces down over his shoulders before he rucks his shirt up himself, exposing as much flesh as he can without getting completely undressed.

Francis leans forward and brushes his fingers over the smooth and bare expanse of James’s stomach, the pads tripping over dry and warm skin. James feels the muscles of his stomach twitch from the butterfly light touches and he sighs, feeling goose-flesh rise on his skin in the cool air of the cabin.

Finally, Francis slips his palm into the waistband of James’s trousers and James tightens his grip on the rope. He closes his eyes and thinks of two fingers, slipping into the opening of a letter and then across, catching on the wax of a seal, tugging, until it breaks and gives him access.

James wants to give Francis access to himself, to be overturned like a basket of fruit, like a glass of wine on a white tablecloth. 

When Francis’s hand makes contact with him James has no words. He feels like his tongue is foreign, like he is trying to speak Eskimeaux to an Englishman. James lets his head fall back, dark hair spilling over his shoulders and the white plinth of his throat pulled taut. His collarbones shift under his skin with every staggering breath he releases, trying to match rhythm with Francis’s hand. 

But Francis watches him so intently he can barely look at his face for fear of blushing madly under the scrutiny, and James knows he is scarlet already from a combination of drink and excitement, mingled with a good measure of shame.

James thinks of the moon, the sea, the ice like glass. He thinks of Francis in his dress blues and white gloves, and the way he would tug them away to reveal fresh baby soft skin. He thinks of icebergs calving into the Atlantic, and parhelion in the morning sky. He thinks of Francis’s collar pulled tight around his neck and cheeks.

“Francis,” the sound leaves his throat before he can even manage to consider how he sounds, raw and unabashedly indecent.

“James,” Francis replies, and at that James snaps his head up as if a spell was spoken over him, compelling him. He meets Francis’s gaze and his body feels hot all over, electric like the points of a mast in a storm.  _ St. Elmo’s fire _ , he thinks, his mind grasping to hold onto something tangible even as his thoughts melt into nonsense as he feels his body betray him all over Francis’s hand.

There is a long moment of silence between them after, and James can feel his breathing even out. The silence stretches on for what feels like an eternity, and James begins to feel panic rise in his chest before Francis finally presses his mouth against the tender pulse point at his throat. 

_ Kiss me here, and here and here again _ . James’s mouth cannot form the words, but he feels like a dog keening to be pet. He whines, and a flash of fear at the vulnerability of that sound moves through him when he remembers that something outside in the snow is listening for their every breath, hunting their every move. 

He shoves those fears aside, and then maneuvers Francis back into the chair before falling to his knees on the hard, wood floor. Tomorrow he’ll have twin bruises there that won’t ever quite heal; most of the bruises he’s sustained lately have lingered. Long lasting galaxies under his skin.

*

After, James is fully dressed but Francis is offering him his handkerchief anyway. James takes it, if only because he wants to keep this little thing Francis has given him, for no reason other than to have it, for it to exist in his possession.

James thinks that if Francis named the moon and sun for him he would want to own them, too. To wrap them up like a gift in a cloth napkin. Or like a man’s embroidered handkerchief,  _ F.R.M.C.  _ in Royal Navy blue at the corner.

James fingers the lace cloth in his pocket, the bumps of embroidery, as he walks back to Erebus.

_ Far away and long ago _ , they would say when they display his belongings in a case at the Natural History Museum in London, a handkerchief among them.

James does not head right to bed when he finds his way back to the Erebus. Instead, he visits the captain’s log and begins to fill in the page by lamplight.

If someone found the Captain’s log for the HMS Erebus--the historians, the haruspices--in some distant time when they were all forgotten, those learned strangers would primarily know about their lives through this record, these short bursts of humanity. They would read the entry for March of 1848, describing the workings of the day in James’s tight scrawl, noting the loquacious manner in which this doomed man from so long ago would record information. They would read that these doomed men were still organizing their spoiled food, their useless burdens, all the things they would do to prepare to move on to the next part. The last part.

_ That’s for them, those to come, _ James thinks before he moves his pen up to the start of the log again. Then, for himself--only for him, a reminder of good things in a bad time--in the margins he pens the gentlest of strokes, a secret thing, and a mystery for all who come after:  _ x. _

**Author's Note:**

> Title from joanna newsom’s song of the same name :)
> 
> if you’re unfamiliar irl james liked to record the sex he had in his journal with a little x
> 
> :+)


End file.
